


Sugar

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Scarification, There's nothing particularly sugary in this fic, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pain reaches where love can't. Fingolfin and Curufin both know that all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar

A hiss from Curufin caused Fingolfin to stop. He looked up and surveyed his handiwork.

The names he had nearly finished carving – their names – stood out red-enamelled against Curufin's skin, one above the other. The letters were perfectly lined and perfectly shaped (he had always had a firm hand), though the blood had smeared over the contours of the sinewy chest whenever Curufin started or writhed. Fëanáro's letters. The three that made them the same on the right, and the two that divided them on the left, the u- and o-tehta curled in opposing directions (sometimes he wondered if Fëanáro had designed them like that on purpose).

He put the tip of the dagger to Curufin's chest once more, and tore the skin to add the final symbol, the little slash of the 'e' on top of the 'w'.

Curufin strained against the cord wound tightly around his wrists, his back arched, and the cut was much deeper than Fingolfin had intended. A pearl of blood instantly formed and rolled down Curufin's side onto the sheet, followed by a larger one. They were the same colour as the two minute diamonds (both made by Fëanáro) that closed the barbell in Curufin's right nipple. 

“Are you hurt?”

Curufin shook his head. 

It was a lie, of course, as well as a breach into the illusion that Fingolfin was the one indisputably in control there.

He lay the flat of the blade against Curufin's cock, and bent down to lick the precome that pooled on the tip. He still reveled in the taste, that lingering vestige of his half-brother that he could make his own, there, across the sea and across death. His tongue followed the blade's descent to the inside of Curufin's left thigh, where he drew a fourth cut alongside the three already marking it.

Curufin tensed.

Fingolfin looked up again, and their gazes locked.

There could never be love between them, but whenever he looked into Curufin's eyes he knew that there was something deeper, something more compelling, that bound them. 

Pain had stouter roots than love. 

He bent and placed a gentle kiss on Curufin's shoulder. His lips crept over the muscles of the arm, tracing the shapes that bulged under the stretched skin. He knew them well by then. Curufin had asked him not to cut him there when they had first taken their relationship beyond simple sex, so he never did.

Blood was on his chest and on his groin when he straightened.

Blood stuck to his thighs when he thrust inside Curufin, his hands clamping down onto his sides to keep him in place. Fëanáro's letters pulsed on Curufin's chest with his slamming into him. More blood oozed from the cuts, and the names seemed to mingle in it. 

Curufin bit the inside of his mouth, but anguished moans still escaped through his lips.

The pleasure wasn't any less intense for Fingolfin, or any less hurtful. 

At the height of pleasure he always remembered. He remembered the sharpness of the tip of his half-brother's sword below his chin, the faint pressure against his windpipe. Fëanáro's gaze had been even sharper, and he could have yielded to it... 

He closed his eyes. He took a step forward, and the blade sank into his skin. He imagined his own blood flowing out, while Fëanáro watched. (He still wondered how could they not have noticed that he had walked away because it had been the only way to rein in that desire).

The bitter reverie made him move even more feverishly inside Curufin, who lay there helpless, tied to his bed.

He would have been the one in control then, too. Fëanáro had never truly intended to physically harm him, otherwise he would have. 

Sometimes he wished he had. The pain would have been so sweet...

Cold as steel, hot as fire.

More thrilling than the caress of Curufin's ass that enveloped him so deliciously... 

He felt his orgasm draw close. He pulled out of Curufin and crawled over his body.

He came half on his face and half in his mouth. 

It was the last desecration, something Fëanáro would have surely killed him for.

But Fëanáro was dead. 

No more fire, no warmth other than that of seed and blood. 

Fëanáro was gone.

That truth reflected in Curufin's eyes stripped the pleasure of its ardour to reveal its bare core: a pincushion pierced full with needles, each of which had a name – betrayal, conflict, rancour, father, mother, longing, loss...

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to the song by Garbage, which kept playing in my head while I wrote this.


End file.
